On this day of this month

two years ago.

The last day with him.

One month + one day from now

two years ago.

The first day without him.

That night I was once again sitting under my tree and, once again, I found myself looking at my dad's ashes. I picked up the small bag and held it to my chest. As soon as I did I felt a wave of energy course through the room and I burst into tears - the kind of tears that are accompanied by deep wrenching sobs and far too much snot. The messy kind of tears. I cried in anger, in sorrow, and in love & grief.

When reeling from a wave of grief, it's hard to pinpoint what type of support we need and well-intentioned loved ones may not know either. I didn't know but through sharing my struggle, I received exactly what I needed. It starts with the basics.

Sometimes it's hard to know what to say to your dying father, and so we just sit together. In a moment of such silence, as his wife was inside preparing for a house showing, I noticed my dad gazing off into space with a far-away look. With an inhale, he picked up his marker and wrote a few words on the white board: “I hope I am still here when the tomatoes ripen”

My shell finally cracked today. It cracked and crumbled as I surrendered to comfort from a friend. As I allowed myself to be tended to. I began to tell them about the conversation, and suddenly I was speechless. Words caught in my throat, blocked by a dense tangle of unexpressed emotion.